Flora's War (2 page)

We walked down the gangplank, and I looked around again for Mr Khalid. ‘Where’s Khalid?’ my father fretted, anxious about our luggage.

‘I don’t know,’ I answered, looking again for the familiar huge, white figure. A younger, slimmer man appeared at my father’s side, dressed in white like Mr Khalid always was.

‘Mr Wentworth?’ he said. ‘I am Mr Hussein. Mr Khalid is my father. He has sent me.’ Mr Hussein was about twenty, I thought, with intelligent dark eyes and a wide moustache.

‘Khalid has?’ my father said. ‘Well, and I didn’t even know he had a son! I’m very pleased to meet you. But where is he?’

‘Mr Khalid apologises, but he is unable to meet you. He is very busy,’ Mr Hussein said. ‘He will meet you in Cairo. I will take care of you until then.’

Mr Khalid had always met us personally. I could feel my father wondering what he could possibly have to do that was more important than the Wentworth excavation.

Mr Hussein called for porters and a carriage, ushered us into it and drove us through the soldier-teeming streets to the station. There were masses of soldiers there, too, packing themselves into the carriages of the Cairo train. How would we ever get onto the train? I wondered. Mr Hussein, however, escorted us to a reserved, first-class compartment that was being guarded by railway officials to ensure that no one else tried to board it. After seeing us to our compartment he said, ‘I will see you in Cairo,’ and left.

The train journey from Alexandria to Cairo took between three and four hours, depending on how many camels there happened to be on the line and how often an official had to climb off the train and chase them away. After accepting tea from the carriage attendant, I pushed the lace curtains aside and looked out at papyrus-overgrown canals. We passed by villages of mud-brick houses standing on the edges of green fields, then we chugged into empty desert.

Egypt! My second home. It was wonderful to be back!

When we arrived in Cairo, instead of the horse-drawn carriage we’d always driven to our hotel out near the pyramids, Mr Hussein showed us to a motorcar.

‘A motorcar!’ my father said. ‘This is something new!’

‘Yes,’ Mr Hussein said proudly. ‘Mr Khalid is always up with the times.’

I was impressed. I’d wanted my father to buy a motorcar, everyone who was anyone in Brisbane had one, but he hadn’t seen the need. I’d been very disappointed; I’d desperately wanted to learn how to drive. I knew I’d look so utterly dashing behind the wheel!

‘Does Mr Khalid drive it?’ I asked enviously.

‘No,’ Mr Hussein said. His chest expanded a little. ‘I am the driver.’

I looked at Fa sidelong. He was preoccupied confirming that all his equipment was gathered about us. I smiled at Mr Hussein. It was worth a try. ‘Would you – could you teach me to drive?’ I asked.

Mr Hussein looked uncomfortable. ‘Indeed I
could
,’ he said. ‘But your father and Mr Khalid would have to agree.’

I sighed, but that was the way it was. There was little I, or any woman, could do without approval from a male relative. I was sure I could get my father and Mr Khalid to agree, but that I had to
ask
annoyed me.

We climbed into the motorcar, porters piled luggage up behind us, and Mr Hussein set off through the streets. There seemed to be even more soldiers here. We had an excellent view of them, perched up on the high seats of the motorcar. Of course, they also had an excellent view of us peering down at them, and many looked at us curiously. A number seemed to be off duty; they were wandering the alleys, looking into little shops, drinking coffee and beer in cafés and eating in restaurants.

We soon left them behind, and drove down the long, straight avenue leading from the middle of Cairo to the pyramids. I pulled my hat off and let my hair blow in the breeze. Even though it was winter in Egypt the days were still warm, though I knew it would be sharply cold in the evenings.

The Nile Palace, the hotel we always stayed at, was almost in the shadow of the pyramids. It was the only large building near them, set in a vast stretch of desert pockmarked with tombs and the ruins of temples. As we drove on, and the three huge shapes of the pyramids loomed before us, I saw something else: low, white shapes stretching out into the desert. Row after row of identical triangular shapes.

‘What’re
they
?’ I shouted to Mr Hussein above the roar and rattle of our engine.

‘It’s the Australian army camp,’ he shouted back. He shook his head. ‘It’s not a good place. It’s too low – mosquitoes, malaria.’

To avoid being bitten by the mosquitoes, we always slept under billowing white clouds of mosquito nets. I wondered if the soldiers had them as well. Unlikely, I thought.

The Nile Palace came into view. I loved our hotel. It was an eccentric extravagance of a building, an oriental fantasy of minarets, domes, arches, balconies and terraces in pure white marble. I always felt like a princess stepping into an enchanted castle as I entered. Perhaps I’d have a room like last year’s, with its own little domed balcony overlooking the pyramids. I hoped to have a room with a view of the lushly green garden, with its cooling splashing fountains and tiny pavilions smothered in vines.

Mr Hussein stopped the motorcar in front of the hotel and went into the lobby while Fa supervised the unloading of the precious baggage. When he was certain of the porters’ competence, Fa and I walked up the spotless marble stairs. As soon as we reached the top a worker leapt out of nowhere with a broom and brushed away the marks of our feet.

We joined Mr Hussein and the hotel clerk at the desk. ‘When it’s convenient the manager would like to see you,’ Mr Hussein said. He looked concerned.

The manager came to us as we sat on a terrace overlooking the garden, having tea. ‘Welcome back to Cairo, Mr Wentworth, Miss Wentworth. It is always good to see you,’ the manager said. I noticed he was rubbing his hands together. ‘But I am afraid I must tell you the hotel is soon to be requisitioned by the Australian army. It is to become a hospital.’ Now he was twisting a gold ring around and around his finger. There was a pause. ‘All of the guests will have to leave.’

Mr Hussein, hovering, looked outraged. ‘When will this happen?’ he demanded.

The manager lifted his shoulders apologetically. ‘A month? Six weeks? They have not told me. I was only informed today.’

‘Mr Wentworth and Miss Wentworth may stay for the present?’ Mr Hussein pressed.

‘Of course,’ the manager said. ‘But when I have word the Australians are ready …’ He spread his hands helplessly.

‘I have already sent for Mr Khalid,’ Mr Hussein said to my father.

I didn’t know when he had done this. He’d only heard about the Australians and the hospital just now. But things worked that way in Egypt. Mr Hussein would only have had to raise an eyebrow at one of the hotel staff for action to occur.

The manager looked alarmed. ‘Mr Khalid is coming? But there is nothing he can do, there is nothing anyone can do.’

Mr Hussein looked as if he rather doubted that.

Less than ten minutes later Mr Khalid arrived. He moved regally from the shadows of the lobby and walked over to the terrace. If Aunt Helen ploughed through life like a battleship, Mr Khalid floated as serenely as one of the white-sailed Arab feluccas on the Nile.

Mr Hussein sprang to attention. The hotel manager stood up respectfully. Mr Khalid and my father sketched bows to each other. I smiled, and Mr Khalid bowed to me as well.

Greetings over, Mr Khalid took a chair. He eyed the manager. ‘I am surprised,’ he said. ‘My information suggested this hotel would not be commandeered.’

Though Mr Khalid said he was surprised, he wasn’t showing it. I had never seen Mr Khalid outwardly surprised, or angry, or put out. He travelled through life tranquil and monumental and as inscrutable as a sphinx. People stepped aside for him, bowed, rushed to do his bidding. I knew he was immensely powerful in Cairo, he knew everything and everyone. He had fingers in every pie. He acted as agent for archaeologists and he owned property and dealt in imports and exports. I had never asked Mr Khalid a question about life in Cairo that he hadn’t been able to answer. Now, someone had failed in their duty to report to Mr Khalid. Someone, I felt, was going to regret this. Mr Khalid did not like to be surprised or misinformed. I was glad it wasn’t I who had failed him.

The manager, still standing, shuffled his feet. ‘It was only today I was informed. It was not expected. I have been in contact with other hotels, trying to find accommodation for my guests. It is not easy. So many buildings, not only hotels –’

‘Yes,’ Mr Khalid said, cutting him short. ‘It is the same all over Cairo.’

‘What?’ said my father, startled. ‘You mean the army’s taking over buildings? Whatever for?’

‘Sick soldiers?’ I suggested. ‘Mr Hussein told us about the malaria.’

‘You don’t need entire hotels for a few soldiers with malaria,’ my father said impatiently. ‘Incredible,’ he went on. ‘There’s no front here! No need for hospitals! The army always overdoes these things.’ He turned to Mr Khalid. ‘Isn’t that right?’

Mr Khalid looked at him calmly. ‘You are right,’ he agreed. ‘There is no front here. Quite possibly this is an overreaction. It will all settle down.’ He flicked an eye at Mr Hussein and the manager, and they politely withdrew.

My father was reassured. ‘As for hotel rooms, I’m sure you’ll be able to fix something up, won’t you, Khalid? I’ll leave you and Flora to deal with it. Now, how are things progressing at the excavation site? Ready to start work?’

He and Mr Khalid began talking about the excavation: how many workers had been employed, and exactly where my father planned to start digging.

I poured more tea, and passed a cup to Mr Khalid. I was concerned. If the army was setting up hospitals, surely it expected those hospitals to be used. There was no front here, certainly. But there were soldiers. Many, many soldiers. They must be here for a reason. Knowing Mr Khalid, I wondered if he knew more than he was telling.

A servant materialised at my elbow. ‘Miss Wentworth?’ he murmured. ‘You have a visitor.’

I looked around. Walking onto the terrace was a girl. No, not just a girl. A vision. A vision in white: a crisp white linen blouse and skirt, a glimpse of whitestockinged ankle, white high-heeled shoes, a waist so slim that a corset was definitely in the picture, a wide white hat, and even – only one girl I knew could have carried this off – a white parasol. I forgot all about soldiers and hotel rooms.

‘Gwen!’ I shrieked. ‘Gwen!’

Chapter 2

The other tea drinkers relaxing on the terrace smiled and looked on indulgently as Gwen and I hugged, shrieked, and hugged again. I’d known Gwendoline Travers for years. She and her family came to Egypt every year for the excavation season, just as we did. Gwen’s father was a professor of archaeology at an American university in Boston. Her older brother, Frank, was a student there and worked with his father on his yearly excavations.

Gwen and I had spent long and happy seasons together in Cairo and at sites up and down the Nile Valley. Like me, last year she’d been a schoolgirl, all long legs and black stockings with hair hanging down her back.

‘When did all
this
happen?’ I twirled Gwen around, frankly admiring her dress, her hat, her absurd and flattering parasol.

‘Probably about the same time it happened to you,’ Gwen replied, laughing.

I didn’t look nearly as amazing as Gwen, I knew. But just give me time, I thought. And my own dressmaker …

‘Mama said it was time I came out,’ Gwen went on. ‘If we were in England, she’d have given a coming-out ball for me and I’d probably be presented at Court.’ Gwen’s mother was an English heiress with property, so the family moved in the best society. ‘But Papa just wouldn’t miss the excavation season. Seeing we’re here –’ she shrugged ‘– she said I might as well make my debut here.’

‘If I’d stayed at home, my Aunt Helen was going to have me presented to the governor,’ I said. ‘We’re lucky she isn’t here. She’d be sure to stop all the fun we’re going to have.’

‘Really?’ said Gwen. ‘Would she?’

‘Well, Aunt Helen wasn’t at all happy about me running around Cairo society without what she called a respectable, older female to accompany me,’ I said. ‘She has a very strong sense of duty. She even considered coming to Egypt herself to chaperone me.’

Gwen laughed. ‘So what saved us from Aunt Helen?’

I linked my arm through Gwen’s and led her to a sofa in view of Fa’s table. ‘My cousin Lillian was turning sixteen as well. Aunt Helen had already promised she’d launch Lillian into Brisbane society.’

‘Poor Lillian,’ Gwen said.

‘She even offered the bait that Lillian and I would make our debuts at Government House and be presented to the governor.’ I pulled a face. ‘She should have known better. That didn’t impress Fa at all, and it certainly didn’t impress me. Why on earth would I want to stay in Brisbane and be chaperoned by Aunt Helen, when I can go to the balls and dinners and dances here?’

We looked at each other and grinned. ‘I think we’ll have a much better time in Cairo together,’ Gwen said. ‘That’s if I can just stop Frank –’

‘Stop Frank what?’ said a voice behind us.

We looked around. Gwen’s older brother was gazing at us, amused.

‘Oh, Frank! It’s so good to see you!’ I stood up and held out my hand. He clasped it warmly. Then he gave me a huge hug, and I hugged back.

Frank released me and looked me up and down. ‘Good to see you, too, Flora,’ he said. ‘And haven’t you changed!’

Gwen leapt up. ‘I was just saying that very thing!’ she exclaimed.

‘And what else were you saying?’ Frank asked. ‘Something about “If I can just stop Frank”?’

She giggled. ‘You know exactly what I mean. If I can just stop Frank keeping an eye on me all the time. And you do, you know you do!’

‘And so I should,’ said Frank calmly. ‘Imagine letting an innocent young thing like you run around Cairo. I’d be failing in my duty as an older brother if I didn’t keep an eye on you. Wouldn’t I, Flora?’ He winked at me.

‘Oh, absolutely,’ I agreed. ‘
Naturally
you feel obliged to watch Gwen’s every move.’